His Raw Materials
by BlueNutburgers
Summary: Britain during the first world war was suffering terribly economically, and the government had to resort to asking America for help. But with the sting of the revolution fresh in Arthurs mind, he's not sure he could bear reliance on his former charge.
1. Sea of Tears

Twiddling his thumbs, Britain gazed out of the porthole with furrowed brows. The sound of the sea was so comforting, now that they were away from the threat of Ludwig's U-boats shooting them down. However, the surrounding greyness was an unpleasant reminder that they were still at war, and things seemed bleak for him.

It was 1915, and so far, things weren't going as well as they had liked over at his place. The cost of the Great War was staggering, and if they didn't make a breakthrough in France soon, this war of attrition was going to keep costing him dearly, not just financially, but with the lives of the thousands of brave people fighting for him. Arthur placed his face in his hands and breathed deeply, trying to compose himself from breaking down into tears; he had to be strong, or at least present himself as such. This was Alfred he was dealing with, after all. Showing any signs of weakness was unacceptable, especially not as he was growing so powerful in such a short time…

_His mind trailed of as memories of a battlefield surfaced in his mind. This wasn't northern France though… or Belgium for that matter. No, he didn't need the lack of modern weaponry to tell him that, he would recognise this place anywhere. It was_ _Alfred, it was raining torrentially, and they were fighting with their all… _no holding back_._

He gasped for air as he snapped back to reality. Feeling the cold on his face, he touched his cheek to see that tears had been flowing mercilessly down his face, and that he was shaking with emotion. Furious with himself, he turned up his nose and wiped his face dry, cursing his former charge with the worst profanities he could think of. Why the hell did he have to rely on that git anyway? He certainly didn't want to; he was the United Bloody Kingdom! His empire covered a third of the world's surface, he wasn't called _Great_ Britain for nothing. But his bosses… well, the _government_ of his country wasn't that great. They were spending millions of pounds on the war, and all for what seemed like nothing, seeing as his men were still stuck in those muddy pits of death fighting those damn Krauts. Traditionally, his government always tried to 'balance the budget' so to speak, making sure they didn't spend beyond their means. Instead, they abandoned that method and decided to borrow from his people and from neutral countries. He could feel his condition getting worse as his national debt increased by 1,200 per cent, and he found himself having to rush away to throw up more frequently.

It wasn't like he had any choice though; because of the attacks on shipping, vital cargoes were lost at sea, making trading through the usual routes not an option. In the end, he had no choice but to rely on the growing economic power of the United States. And so, as the ship trundled across the Atlantic Ocean, Arthur Kirkland sat out the rest of the journey hating himself, Germany and that American wanker.

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><p><strong>My first Hetalia fanfiction! I'm having fun writing this, it's the only thing that makes this Unit of History bearable, the fact that there's the occasional opportunity for USUK =w=;; Please review, it would make me really happy to read what you guys think!<strong>

**Reviews are love!**


	2. Meeting

In the lobby of the J.P. Morgan building, Arthur paced up and down, face paler than usual with his illness getting worse. He tugged at his collar as he broke out into a cold sweat, wringing his clammy hands. He decided it wouldn't hurt to go take a drink from the jar of water on a table to his left… yes, water, that's what he needed, fortifying stuff. It was icy cold, but refreshing, and he downed it thirstily, before pouring himself several more cups and downing those too. Eventually, he ended up emptying the jugs contents, having drunk it all in his haste.

"Sir", England jumped at the sudden noise, and turned to face the secretary that faced him from the desk at the back of the room, "they're ready to see you now, please take the elevator to the top floor and go straight into conference room 4" she explained in a delicate accent, not as brash as the typical New Yorker (no matter which state he was in, Arthur found the American accents ridiculous and over the top. Yes, even more so than the Scouse) but the influence was still there, he could tell. Nodding curtly with a simple "thank you", he entered the lift and pressed the circle numbered 50, the topmost floor of the building. As he ascended, the weird feeling that people tend to get in lifts made him feel queasy, and now drinking all that water seemed like a bad idea to the over-hydrated island nation.

People got on and off, giving the pale sweaty man in a bottle green suit and bowler hat some disgusted looks, all hoping that they didn't catch what he had. At last he arrived at the topper-most floor, and he stumbled out of the lift, but remembering to catch himself and straighten up, needing to make a good impression; after all, he represented the entire country here, and he didn't want to get off to a bad start. He fixed his tie and wiped the sweat off his hands onto his black shirt where it wouldn't be visible. Supressing a cough, he flexed his fingers, and reached out to grasp the door handle, before pushing it forward to walk proudly into the spacious conference room.

Taking off his hat he acknowledged the men sat around the desk politely, and shook hands with the man sitting at the head of it.

"Arthur Kirkland, pleased to make your acquaintance sir," he introduced himself in the most prim, proper English accent he could, always entertained by showing off his manners to Americans that he believed had none.

"Good to meet you Mr Kirkland, the name's Morgan, but, you probably knew that already," he chuckled heartily, his double chin jiggling, Arthur observed. He noticed an empty seat next to the rotund corporate boss, and assumed it was for him, 'a bit intimate' he thought, being reminded of the many times he had attempted to make business deals with the French… He went to sit down but the director simply looked him sharply in the eye, before pointing a fat thumb in the direction of a seat at the opposite end. Relieved that Mr Morgan wasn't under the influence of frogs legs and wine, he took his designated seat opposite the man, and started to remove important documents from his briefcase. Arranging them all neatly around him, once he was satisfied that everything was in order, he proceeded to begin the dealing.

"Well, as you are probably aware, the war situation back in Euro-" He was silenced as there was a loud crash behind him, and the sound of the doorknob rattling, as if somebody was trying to open it outwards, before the door flung open on its hinges and slammed the wall. The papers Arthur had set out perfectly a while ago were flung around the room with the force of the breeze from the door. The short blonde Brit tried to grab them all, but by then, the papers were already a mess. In burst a tall blonde man with glasses, looking slightly at odds with the suit he was wearing, as if formal clothes weren't really his thing. He looked at the director, beaming from ear to ear, and although he seemed to have burst in with the energy and urgency of somebody who had ran there really fast, not a hair was out of place, nor was he out of breath.

"Mr Morgan, sorry for being late, had a bit of a late one last night and kinda overslept!" he apologised loudly in a brash American accent. Hearing this, Arthur froze, gulping back air that he didn't seem to be able to breathe anymore. The man laughed, looking a bit embarrassed, but glowing with happiness.

"Ah, Alfred! It's good to see you're finally here, take a seat!" the director greeted him cheerfully, motioning to the empty seat that was next to him. Arthur simply stared absently, not knowing what to feel, what to think… T-this was him? _H-he was here? _Oh god, why did _he_ of all people have to be here. He was hoping for a single trip where he didn't have to face that imbecile. He fidgeted in his seat, biting his lip and trying to contain himself.

Alfred sat down at his seat and looked at Arthur, analysing the pale shifty limey across from him. Smiling at each of the members of the board who were also assembled, he leaned across the table with an outstretched hand and shook that of everyone else that he could reach. Finally, he decided to sit still long enough to actually let someone speak.

"Alfred, we were just about to get started, so if you could let Mr Kirkland talk… I presume you two are acquainted already? Being who you are after all!" the director chuckled fondly as he ruffled his country's hair like a father, amused with the personifications.

Meanwhile, Arthur was staring at the dark darkly, clenching his fists and shaking a little. Alfred and Mr Morgan both turned to face the scowling Briton, the former with a dumb smile still faintly pulling at the sides of his mouth. He was happy to see Artie, so what was wrong? Had he eaten something deadly like a scone or something? Mr Morgan on the other hand was still laughing a little, clearly amused by his own sense of humour.

Arthur raised his eyelevel to glare at the director, knowing full well that he was too ignorant to sense the mood, and consequently, his fury.

"Do you know your history, Mr Morgan?" Arthur asked him slowly and sarcastically, almost spitting out each word, loaded with venom. Pushing himself to his feet abruptly, and clenching the desk, he picked up the papers strewn everywhere, arranged them neatly in his briefcase but too angry to put them all in order. "Excuse me," he said quietly, attempting to keep up a gentlemanly façade, as he put his hat on his head. He ignored Alfred's confused, sad face, and turned on his heel, before opening the door and marching out.

Blinking in surprise, the director looked at America confused. "What do you think's wrong with him? Hmm, must be a country thing." He chuckled at this, and then gave Alfred a serious look, "Go after him, make sure he's okay, 'kay son? Besides, we could be losing out on some huge profit here!" Mr Morgan looked at Alfred, knowing full well that the capitalist nation wouldn't let that slide.

He was right.

"Don't worry sir, leave everything to me, after all, I'm the hero! I'll save your money!" he promised earnestly, before bolting out the room after England, to stop him from doing something stupid, like finding another country to supply his war goods.

Meanwhile, England was crying heavily, pounding the button on the lift to make it hurry up, so he could just get away from here. He felt like he was going to be sick, and after seeing that idiots face, he didn't think he could take it any longer. He was pressing it as fast as he could, sobbing his eyes out as the tears streamed down his face. Finally it dinged, and he got in as fast as he could. He heard a loud noise and realised that they were probably coming after him, so he frantically held down the close-doors button, not wanting to be seen like this and give his country a bad reputation.

"Britain WAIT!" America cried out, causing England to freeze. The doors were closing, there's no way he would be able to make it. Just before they shut, America stuck out his hand, causing the doors to open again, letting him step in. He put a hand firmly on Arthur's shoulder, and waited for him to turn around and face him. However, the short nation didn't, he just stood there, trying to hold back his tears.

"Artie…? Look at me," America urged with sadness in his voice. He couldn't take it anymore; he turned to face Alfred, just as the idiot wanted. He glared up at the tall blonde, thick eyebrows scrunched up in pain and rage, as he fumed at his ex-brother.

"IT'S ARTHUR YOU IDIOT!" he shouted, getting his angry face right up in America's surprised one. "And for the record, I'D RATHER YOU CALLED ME ENGLAND. BRITAIN DOESN'T EVEN ENCOMPASS IRELAND, WHICH, FOR THE RECORD, IS STILL MINE. I WON'T GIVE THEM ANY INDEPENDENCE, NOT AFTER WHAT _YOU_ DID." At this, England prodded America hard into his chest, and seethed.

"Erm… England? Are you oka-"

"DO I LOOK OKAY TO YOU, YOU WANKER?" he cried, his face bright red and his eyes puffy, "JUST LOOK AT YOU! HOW DARE YOU LEAVE ME?"

America was about to say something, when England suddenly started hitting him, punching him everywhere his fists could reach. It didn't hurt the superpower, but England was causing a bit of a scene. Gingerly, he pressed the close-door button to obscure them from view so that England could have his moment. Once England was worn out from hitting him, he slumped to the floor and sobbed quietly. Alfred crouched down next to him and sighed.

"Arthur… you don't look so well," America had no idea how to console someone so worked up about something that happened so far back in the past, so he commented on the one thing he did understand, which was the physical, obvious side of things. He couldn't read the atmosphere at all, but he knew that healthy people didn't have baggy eyes and sweaty foreheads. Placing a hand against England's forehead, he felt the heat radiating off him like an oven.

"Yeah… I think it's better if you come with me" Alfred stated, adamant that his former caretaker be taken care of by him. Carefully smartening up the ill nation, he made sure that he was okay to stand, before taking him carefully to his house.

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><p><strong>Thankyou to everybody who kindly reviewed and faved! The story was only up for an hour *le gasp* I mean, thanks so much you guys! ;u; I'm going to take all your kind advice into consideration, so I can improve!<strong>

**And yeah, a big thanks to my History text book, it's like, a giant fanfic about Iggy :D But when I looked at it that way, bits of it made me cry a little :'I Like the bit about Ireland. *excusemewhileIgotomyemocorner***

**Now I must be off, we're roleplaying in sociology :U I'm the Finland to my Sweden, and we have to get Sealand into private school. Oh and he's good at RE. *facepalm***

**Remember that reviews are love! **


	3. Cloud Baby

America fumbled around for his keys as England stood behind him, groaning and clutching at his stomach.

"Hold on Arts, I just need to find my damn keys… Ah, got 'em!" he announced triumphantly, holding them up as if he was Link and he'd just found some treasure. A quick clip to the ear reminded him that there was a dying nation who was sick of waiting for him.

"J'st get on w'th it will you?" Arthur mumbled, his head pounding and his nose watering.

"Sure, sorry about that," America apologised embarrassedly as he swung the white wooden door open onto his townhouse. "Take a seat Artie; I'll just make you some tea…" America offered, indicating the living room to his right, as he wandered off to figure out how to make tea. Arthur gladly took this invitation and slid into a big brown sofa. Ahh, it was so soft, if there's one good thing about these American idiots, it's that they know how to make their people as comfortable as possible. Propping his head up against some cushions, he looked around the sitting room and sighed. He remembered when this place was cleaner, but now there were half finished inventions lying about; copper gears and sprockets littered the floor and there was a fresh layer of dust gathering on all the books he's received as gifts from Arthur… Ah, yes… those days… England lay back and sank into the soft pillows, a haze of pleasant memories, starting to dream of sunny days in wide open fields. The buffalo were grazing silently, and the clouds were big and fluffy, and _so soft_.

_You point to the sky, at a particularly chubby cloud that happened to be floating lazily overhead. _

"_What does that one look like Alfie?" you ask cheerfully, gazing at the gentle giant. _

"_It looks like a big fluffy bunny Bwitain!" a tiny voice cooed beside you, delighted by the cute shapes the clouds were making. A chubby little finger pointed up at another one, this time a wispy one; "What do you call the ones that look like wormies?" he asked as you turn to face him. His bright cerulean eyes shined into your emerald ones inquisitively, innocence and playfulness radiating from him. _

_You chuckle and ruffle his hair, which makes him scrunch up his face and pout, but smiling all the while, as you reply "Those, _ahem_, wormy things, as you call them, are actually called cirrus clouds, my dear boy, kind of like citrus fruit, which are things like oranges and limes. Did you know that pirates had to eat lots of citrus fruits to stop them from getting scurvy? Arr, many sailors still do, because they don't go bad as fast, so you can take them on long journeys." _

"_You used to be a piwate, didn't you Bwitain?" asked the child, a proud smile on his face, "Did you have to eat limeys too?"_

"_Of course! Limes are good for you, and they're green, so I guess they just suit me don't you think?" you tell him, feeling warm inside after seeing how his little face shone. _

_The boy giggled, "Limeys sound yummy Bwitain, I want to try some one day…" You giggle too, the way he mispronounces words like 'wormies' and 'limeys' is just too cute. "Ohh, do the big puffy clouds have a special name too?" he asks you, jumping back to the conversation about clouds._

"_Ahh, those… I don't think you'd be able to say it, if I'm honest America," you smile knowingly, and you are entertained by his face, which is gaping at you, looking both smug and… you could say heroic. _

"_I bet I can! I can do anything if I put my mind to it, isn't that what you awways used to tell me? So go on, I can do it! I can, I can!" he insisted, adamant that he could definitely say whatever it was. It's your turn to feel proud; he's getting so mature, and so brave. _

"_Okay then," you smile at him slyly, "its name is cumulonimbus." You say the last word slowly, making sure he hears it properly. You watch as his expression turns into one of utmost concentration. _

"_Q… Kyoo… Yoo…Kyooyoomo…" you watch his struggle to get his tongue around the word, trying not to laugh; he was trying so hard, it was so sweet. "Kumanolimpus… Kayunomulus… Clumunomimbas… STOP LAUGHING AT ME!" he cried as he shook you, disheartened by his inability to say the word. You stop laughing and smile at him lovingly, wiping away his tears and embracing him fondly. _

"_Alfred, you did a good job, okay? It's a hard word to say, many grown-ups can't say it either. I know you'll get the hang of it when you grow up." Little Alfred looks up at you with shiny eyes, and sniffs._

"_B-but I want to say it now… I want to make you pwoud of me Bwitain…" he sniffs and looks down at his thumbs and toys with the hem of his gown. You're touched by this, and you try to reassure him._

"_America, I'm already proud of you. Really, you're so strong and so clever for a new nation; I daresay a whole lot more than I was back when I was your age… And you've made me the happiest country alive just by existing. I love you Alfred, and of course I'm proud of you! Never change, okay? You're perfect the way to are."_

"_W-weally?" Alfred couldn't believe it, he was only a tiny country after all…"But I wanna be big and strong like you!" he insisted, trying to balance on his tiptoes to make himself taller. You sit him down on the grass again and pat him on the head._

"_All in due time America, all in due time. For now though, why don't we just enjoy this moment? Okay?" you smile up at the clouds again and breathe the fresh air deeply. America pouts a little, but copies you in breathing. You see him point out way into the distance, but your eyes can't see what he's trying to show you._

"_That one looks like your food Bwitain!" he giggles cheekily, as you smile. _

"_Oh don't be silly lad, I don't make mashed potatoes, that's what Ireland does! Unless there's some kind of white food I forgot I even made…" you pause to try and think what food you make that could possibly look like clouds, but you're interrupted by America._

"_No, I mean, it's all dark and scary looking!" he exclaims as you're taken aback. You frown a little, that kind of hurt, but you remind yourself that boys will be boys, and his taste isn't developed enough to fully appreciate the wonders of British cuisine. You look at where he's still pointing, noticing his face looks scared all of a sudden. Could it be a buffalo? But why? He can take them on no problem…_

"_America, what seems to be the pr- Oh my goodness gracious… what is that?" you ask in surprise as a big black cloud comes towards you. It looks like it's going to rain, and you can see electricity crackling in it as it thunders along. The sky is growing darker above you and you're worried for your young brother. _

"_America, we have to get out of here, now!" you urge him, as you grab his small hands. You pull as you stand, but the hand stays firmly in place. As a drip of rain plops onto your nose, your voice takes an increasingly worried tone. "Stop playing around America, we really must be off before the storm comes. Still no movent. Panic sets in as you try to forcibly drag him away, but he still doesn't budge. His grip feels much stronger now, and his hand almost seems… bigger? _

"_America, stop being lazy and come with me THIS INSTANT-" you turn to give him a scolding look, but instead of looking down at a child, there were a pair of boots, and in these boots were a pair of legs, and as you look up, you notice that your holding the hand of a tall blonde man, but… with the face… of America? What was happening? What had happened to his sweet innocent child, and what was this soldier doing with his child's face? The soldier had a blue uniform, with white and red adornments. You look down at yourself and see that your clothes have turned into a red uniform, with a diagonal white cross across your chest, and black boots where you previously had sandals. Rain was pouring all around you as the meadow scene faded to mud, and all around you there were faceless soldiers all dressed like this face-stealing man. When he finally spoke, it was with the child's voice._

"_Bwitain. I don't WANT to come with you."_

_That voice… it couldn't possibly be Americas! H-he would never say a thing like that! His voice was pure and kind. What on earth?_

"_Who are you?" you ask him angrily, glaring at the Alfred's face as it seemed to distort and stretch into more adult proportions._

"_Me?" the child's voice rang out, with a song like quality to it. "I don't think you'd be able to say it, if I'm honest, _Britain_" the voice sang mockingly, also distorting, as it sounded like it was laced with a low harmony, a deeper voice weaving through it. "I'm the _independent_ United States of America; Independent from YOU." This voice boomed out with a strong American accent, as deep as an adult, with no kindness in it. You struggle to comprehend; this can't be Alfred, surely!_

"_I-Inde… I-ndepen…?" you can't bring yourself to ask, you're confused and scared, and your heart is beating faster._

"_See?" the tall man laughed, "Told you so. Who's big now? Most certainly not you." _

_You feel yourself sinking into the mud slowly as you're battered with rain; the more you struggle, the tighter the mud sucks you in, and as you sink, 'Alfred' towers above you. _

"_You used to be so big…" he looks down at you, and as you look around, you see hordes of blue coated soldiers swarming around, all aiming bayonets and muskets at you. You want to cry out, beg for help and scream, but you can't, you just sink deeper into the mud, and when you open your mouth, more mud just pours in. You can't breathe now, and you choke on the brown death pouring into your throat and filling your lungs. You look up at the USA, and into his eyes. There is no sparkle now, just a dull, unfriendly glare, and as your heart beats frenziedly against your ribcage for escape, the last thing you see before he places a boot clad foot onto your head and pushes you under completely._

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><p><strong>Oh my, Iggy jusy had a nightmare... Freaky D8 Do you think I'd need to rate it M? Because my sister said it's pretty graphic =o= I don't think so though. Gah, at least all these years of studying English paid off, I'd be lost with all this dialogue if I hadn't... So I'm going to thank Carly and Angie right now for their mad teaching skillzor. <strong>

**Also, just checked my traffic, and I have to thank you guys so much for reading my little story! I thought like, 5 people would read it but no, there are hundreds! D: *in shock* So thanks a million guys, I love you all!**

**Remember, reviews are love! Each reviwer gets a burger signed by America himself! XD**


	4. InSecurity

Alfred walked back into his living room carrying a tray laden with tea and toast, and other various snacks he could pull together without Lithuania's help. Damn, it's hard looking after people; he should probably give Toris a raise, huh? Anyway, he set down the tray on the coffee table next to Arthur, and was surprised to see him fast asleep; he didn't think Artie would do something so 'lazy'. He smiled at the Brit's calm sleeping face and set about arranging the cups and plates. Just as he was slicing the cake, he heard Arthur mumble something. He looked to the side and saw that his face was troubled, and his eyebrows were close-knit with... was that pain? Oh no, what happened to Arthur? His sofa was very comfortable! He watched with confusion as England started to breathe heavier, making small, desperate noises as if he was drowning. America had no idea what to do, and started pouring tea down the Brit's throat, hoping that the brew would perk him up as it always did.

Coughing and spluttering, Arthur bolted upright, dribbling hot tea all down his front, gasping and choking on the hot liquid. Making scared gasping noises and crying again, he reached out and grabbed America by the neck. For a split second, Alfred thought he was going to be strangled for pouring the scorching tea down him, but was surprised to find that he was being embraced tightly by the Englishman. He felt his shoulders get wet from the tea and tears Arthur was leaking and coughing up, but he didn't care; he was just shocked at being hugged so closely. Tentatively, he rubbed the Briton's back comfortingly, making small circles and reassuring him.

"It's okay Artie, its okay" he whispered gently, patting him between the shoulder blades. England squeezed the American to him, not wanting to let go, not even fully aware of what he was doing. All he wanted right now was comfort and protection. Harrowed by the dream he just had, he simply sobbed into the larger nation, not wanting to be left alone again. They sat in that awkward position for a long time, because by the time the tears and the crying finally stopped, it was already starting to get dark. Alfred put his hands on the other's shoulders, and faced him with a serious yet kind look.

"Arthur, are you okay? I mean, not that you seem okay, but I, like..."his voice trailed off, not wanting to say the wrong thing after the outburst earlier. He looked at England, who wouldn't meet his gaze, and simply looked away, blushing and miserable. "If something's bothering you, you can always talk to me?" Shifting his eyes to stare at the American dejectedly, he bit his bottom lip and frowned.

"No, that's just it. I can't talk to you. Not about anything" he mumbled quietly, closing his eyes and sighing, "Not anymore..." America's face fell, and he stood up. England refused to look up, so he was pulled to his feet gently, and then pulled back down onto the sofa so that he was sat clinging to Alfred's chest.

"It's up to you Artie, but if you need to say anything, I'm always ready to listen to you" America reassured kindly, carefully holding the smaller hands in his. England was alarmed by this level of contact, but he was too worn out to care. Again, they sat like this for a long time, neither speaking a word, nor even making the effort to move.

"Ireland" Arthur finally broke the silence. America looked at him, what about Ireland? "He wants to be," he choked on the last word, "independent." He hung his head down and exhaled gloomily. "There are these... these people. They call themselves the Sinn Fein group. They stand for the complete separating of all of Ireland, including Ulster, from the rest of Britain. They wouldn't even stop at being granted Home Rule. A-and now," England stuttered sadly, "they want to take my brother away from me. L-like you did, merely 132 years previous..." at this, he broke down, sinking into a slump and weeping into his hands. "A-and I just can't deal with it, you know? I-I mean, there's a war on, a-and my people are dying, and my emp-p-p-pire is slowly deserting me... and I'm going to be left all alone if they go." America looked on, feeling pity for his old brother. As much as he understood Ireland's wish for independence, he couldn't bear to see England like this. He rarely cried, after all. In fact, he only ever saw him crying thrice in his whole short lifetime...

_England was depressed; Francis had tempted America with his food, and was certain to claim this new world as his territory, all for himself, thanks to his appeal and charm. But seeing England so sad then... He didn't want the Englishman to cry, it hurt him to see him so sad... He chose to go with England. _

_Since that day, he'd never seen England cry; he always smiled when he saw the young American, overjoyed when he could spend time with his brother. Until that day..._

_The second time, he had finally gained his independence. Leaving the empire and becoming his own country; everyone has to grow up at some point right? He'd have thought that he'd be happy for America, finally being strong enough to defeat his mentor, the greatest military power in the modern world. However, this wasn't the case, as he soon found out. _

And now, this, the third time, England was still upset over the events of the past... Alfred thought long and hard as he tried to make sense of it all. Putting together the pieces in his mind, he came to his conclusion: England probably loved him dearly, even though he refuses to admit it, and it broke his heart to imagine a world without him. So now that Ireland was threatening to leave, the painful memories came flooding back to him, and now he couldn't bear to go through all that again. This, along with the financial troubles at his place, and fighting with big strong countries like Germany, it was little wonder why the nation just couldn't take it all anymore. Finally understanding what had been causing him so much distress, he embraced England warmly and snuggled close.

"Arthur, I'm so sorry. I never realised that I had hurt you so badly. I might be, ah, independent..." he flinched at this word, "but I promise that from now on, I'll stay by your side and never leave you, okay? You'll always be my best friend in the whole world." Blinking up at Alfred sadly, England looked confused. Where had this come from? He couldn't imagine Alfred being so... mature.

"You flatter yourself too much, git. Not everything's about you, you know" England mumbled embarrassedly, a pale pink flushing his cheeks. America looked on, astonished and disheartened.

"W-wha-?" he began, but before he had the chance to ask anything, Arthur planted a quick kiss onto his rough lips.

"Shut up, you silly bugger," he brushed off the situation, blushing even brighter and avoiding the gaze of the tall nation, who put a hand to his lips as if he couldn't believe what the other had just done. England on the other hand, tried to distract from the awkward situation by grabbing a cup of tea from the tray and drinking it intently, before spitting it out and making a disgusted face.

"Wanker, this tea's cold!" he complained, forgetting briefly about what just happened. Picking up the cups with haste and rushing out of the room, he tried to find a kitchen in which he could make some fresh tea, and avoid the awkwardness of being in a room with Alfred. Meanwhile, Alfred just sat there with a dumb smile plastered on his face, blissfully enjoying what was left of the feeling of England's soft lips on his.

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><p><strong>Wooo. Fired this one off in tutorial, had nothing better to do after all. <strong>

**Yeah, here we go into detail about why England's still so upset aout the revolution. just as he was beginning to get over it, bam, Ireland decides to fuckshitup. DON'T TAKE IGGY'S BROTHER AWAY! DX Oh wait, spoliers, Ireland is now independent. But this is the past, tralalala they don't know that. Let Arthur have hope, k? Next chapter on the way when I can be bothered! XD Which means soon probably. Because for once, I'm actually not procrastinating. Unless writing this is procrastinating from doing homework... hmmmmmmm ;) ouo**

**Also, I HAS MOOMIN CANDY! It's Finland and Japan's lovechild :U **

**Please remember to review! Each one makes me ridiculously happy! **


	5. In Sickness and in Health

England rummaged through America's cupboards, looking for some teabags or leaves. Giving up for now, he rinsed the cold, stale tea out of the failed cups, and filled up a kettle with water from the faucet. He lit a match and fired up the hob, putting on the kettle and resumed his search for the tea. He was trying to keep himself busy; if he stopped for a second too long, he was worried his thoughts might run away with him again, and he didn't want to get over-emotional once more; it was unbecoming of a gentleman such as himself. So he just set about mindlessly doing what he was used to, which was making cuppas. Eventually he found a small box of Earl Grey, wedged behind big jars of coffee and guessed that it was probably still safe to drink, plopping a bag into each cup. As he waited for the kettle to whistle, he found himself with nothing to do. Damn...

"England, you okay in there?" called America from the other room, getting impatient. Arthur bit his bottom lip and held himself together. He didn't want to talk to the blue-eyed American. Rather than lie and say that he was fine, or tell the truth and struggle to describe how he felt, he just kept quiet and busied himself with looking at the stuff in the kitchen. Everything was so rustic, as if he was living on a ranch or something, as opposed to in the city centre, with copper and wood replacing pewter and steel. He scoffed, it didn't compare to his plush, modern life in London, but then, Alfred never really did have sophisticated tastes. He could tell that from his ugly curtains and the handmade decorations, which seemed to be whittled by a simple knife.

Hearing footsteps from the corridor coming to the kitchen he sighed exasperatedly. Why couldn't the arsehole just leave him alone? Ah yes, he kissed him. Looking back, he regretted that now. It was just a heat of the moment thing, it meant nothing! Didn't it? Of course, what was he thinking, he hadn't forgiven the idiot still, and he sure as hell didn't feel anything for him _that _way either. Before he could get worked up again, is head throbbed painfully.

"Ahh..." he clutched at his skull, feeling pain sear through it. He stumbled to his knees and groaned, coughing deeply and eyes stinging. He curled up into a ball, his stomach twisting and stirring up its contents. It was just a wave, he tried to reassure himself, and it would pass soon. He just wished it would hurry the bloody hell up before America got here. The pain was intense though, he didn't think he could stop himself from being sick this time, but at least it wasn't in public. Hell, it might improve the room's aesthetics even, he thought. Dammit, it hurt so badly though, and he could feel the bile rising in his throat, burning the insides.

"Oh fuck. Britain! Hold on!" America ran towards the old nation, who was green and pale, clutching himself around the waist and shaking. The kettle whistled, and England screamed, both sounds harmonising like a ghastly choir of tortured souls. He got down on his knees in front of Arthur, and held his face in his hands, lifting it up to see a not so great sight. Little streams of greyish liquid dripped from his lips, and drops gathered in a pool of it at their knees. His eyes were pink and puffy, and his forehead was coated in a layer of sweat. England opened his mouth to say something, but more liquid just came out, covering Alfred's fingers and pants. America didn't care about that right now; what mattered was that shit was going down at England's place, and he needed to be treated with the utmost care.

As for England, he could actually feel what had been bothering him recently. There had been a major strike on Clydeside, and he felt the anger of his people growing. He also felt the impact of the extension of income tax, as his debts were slowly spiralling out of control. He just couldn't take it on his own. Swallowing his pride, he swallowed his own vomit at the same time, and his throat blistered evilly. Exhausted, suffering and overloaded, he collapsed into Americas outstretched arms and fainted.

America looked around him. The kettle was dying down, and the sick nation was passed out on top of him, as they were both surrounded by the aftermath of a particularly harsh wave of poverty sickness. He picked up the nation bridal style, and carried him to the bathroom to get him cleaned off. He felt his heart pang at the sight of his friend laying in his arms as if dead, and realised how distraught he'd be if he was to actually pass away. After everything he'd done? It would be a horrible injustice if the British Empire himself was to dissolve. He held the Brit close to his heart, in both the literal and metaphorical sense. Hopefully, Arthur's lion heart would keep beating along with his far into the future.

In his bathroom, America took the greatest care when undressing the small nation, so as not to hurt him or wake him up. He probably wasn't having the most peaceful of sleeps, but it was the least he could do to spare him from the pain of consciousness. When the older blonde was down to his undergarments, America gently slid him into the bath, testing the shallow water with his hand first to make sure it wouldn't burn or freeze the already unstable nation.

Alfred felt like the roles had been reversed. Here he was, cleaning up his ex-father-figure, rinsing away the mess he'd made after an especially draining day. He made sure to clean behind his ears, and took care to wipe all the viscous fluids from his face. Gently, he scooped some water into a cup and gently washed the straw blonde hair, rubbing his head with strong fingers. England shifted in the tub dozily, unaware that America was washing his sleeping body. After taking extra care washing his face, he lifted England's fresh body out of the tub, and wrapped him in a fluffy white towel, drying him tenderly, making sure he wasn't cold. The same way as he took him to the bathroom, he took the cocooned Arthur to his bedroom and lay him down on the bed. Realising that his boxers were probably uncomfortably soaked now, he removed them carefully and hung them on the bed-knob to dry. Removing the towel, he tucked Artie into the bed, fluffing up the pillows and making sure that everything was okay for him. He looked down and noticed that he was still covered in the remains of Arthur's little accident, so resolved that he too should probably wash.

Back in the bathroom, Alfred was undressing. He undid his belt buckle and slid his trousers down, before unbuttoning his shirt to reveal his well-toned abs. He took that off too and chucked it to the corner on top of England's clothes along with the pants, closely followed by his briefs. He stepped into the bath, not bothering to change the water, and sunk into its depths, luxuriating in the warmth that remained. He inhaled the air; it smelled of Arthur- that warm, musky smell of coal and chocolate. He submerged himself into the water, saturating his hair with the water, before resurfacing again to breathe. Stepping out of the bath, he wrapped a towel around his waist and grabbed another for his hair. Rubbing it dry, he walked into the bedroom and stood over Arthur, checking up on him.

America sighed. He looked so peaceful, like an angel with his hair spread out like a halo. If only he could look this sweet and kind all the time like he used to before he turned all miserable all the time. England's breathing was still troubled though, gasping sporadically and mumbling incoherent things.

Towelling his hair dry, he discarded it to the corner, along with the one around his waist, and crawled into bed next to Arthur, holding him close to keep him warm and secure against his body. This felt nice, he hadn't slept with Arthur in an extremely long time, the last instance probably being when he was still very young. He was glad that now he had the chance to spend this time with Artie, even if the other was passed out from a bad economy. _'Beggars can't be choosers'_, Britain would have said to him as a child, as he had his hair ruffled and was given yet another gross pudding for dessert.

'…Is that how Britain sees me? He doesn't seem all too pleased to be buying war material off me recently, but it isn't like he has any other choice.' America sighed; Arthur and his bosses were his best customers, constantly buying goods for the war effort from his place these days. 'Francis is too poor and busy fighting to help, as were the other countries in Europe that aren't his enemy, and Matthew's far too much of a pussy to supply the sheer volume and awesomeness that I can... So is that it then? I'm simply a means to an end?'

"Well, sorry Arthur, but whether you like it or not, I'm going to help you as much as I can from now on, and hopefully, whenever you're a beggar, you'll always choose me anyway", America resolved quietly, whispering into the soft skin of the sick nation's neck, before kissing it softly and spooning him more snuggly.

And besides, he thought as he snuggled into the short blonde; Britain wasn't a gross pudding; maybe just a bit of an Eton _mess_.

* * *

><p><strong>OMJ BATH SCENE ;3 AND SPOONING. Arthur's one lucky duckling, who wouldn't want to have America feel them up in a bath and sleep with them? (Though personally I'd take Iggy. TEEHEE :D ) I haven't been getting many reviews anymore... Man, I feel foreveralone. X'D Okay it's not that bad, but instead of faving and running, could you at least leave a short review, even if it's one word, criticism or you aren't logged in or anything? I see all these views, but I don't know if you like it or not, seeing as I can count the faves, follows and reviews on my hands. D:<strong>

**REVIEWS ARE LOVE YOU GUYS! :'D (You know what, I feel evil. So if you don't review, I'll start putting those fucking annoying disclaimers in my fics. I mean jeesh, if we owned Hetalia, why would we write fanfiction? We'd just make canon. XD But I'm warning you now, silent readers that don't make yourselves known ;D )**


	6. That Bloody Banker

England moaned sleepily, his voice muffled considerably by the pillow. He was aching all over his body as if he'd been hit by a large truck. But for some reason he was in a soft cosy bed, and damn it felt good. He rolled over in his sleep, warm and snug between the sheets. Daylight was streaming through the window, bathing him in a warm glow and making his golden hair sparkle. However, the glare against his eyes was like a loud man knocking on the door of his eyelids, forcing them painfully open as the Brit blinked and strained to focus in the startling brightness. He groaned for a long while as he adjusted to being awake, before sneezing really hard and yawning himself half awake. His mind was fuzzy, but despite the pain, he wasn't hungover, so although he barely remembered the night's events, the memories were surfacing with every second he became more conscious. But even so, he hardly remembered anything that had went on before passing out in a kitchen… wait. He wasn't lying face down on hardwood flooring, he was in a bed. And not his own? He squirmed uneasily as he tried to process all this confusion, wondering what the bloody hell happened. He strained to lift his head as he looked down at the sheets, trying to figure out why they weren't the familiar pale pink and why he was under them anyway. And then he noticed something else.

"What…" he whispered as his eyes widened in horror, feeling extremely distressed at his present situation. He wrenched back the sheets only to confirm his fears, as he saw his body stark naked and spread out before him. He gasped and squeaked in horror, too freaked out and sore to scream as loud as the alarm bells in his head were ringing. His face went red as his heart fluttered fearfully, feeling violated as he scanned the room for his clothes to no avail, except to find his underwear draped over the bed. "Bugger… BUGGERBUGGERBUGGER!" he whispered loudly, chewing his finger desperately. He scrambled out of the bed and grabbed his dainties, pulling the duvet with him to try and preserve the little dignity he had left; he was going to try and find the rest of his clothes and escape this unfamiliar house. He knew it wasn't France's by the lack of extravagant furnishings, roses and bad taste, and he didn't know any other country with a penchant for removing people's clothes against their will. He stumbled out of the door after struggling with the knob, as he staggered down the corridor checking all the rooms.

About halfway down the hall he reached the bathroom where he found his clothes in a pile on the floor, only that there was another suit thrown onto the pile on top. He kneeled down next to them and grabbed his garments, avoiding the others as if they were diseased. He prodded them with tentative fingers, wracking his mind for a clue as to who they belonged to. They were _so_ familiar, but he just couldn't put his finger on it. It looked very British in style, but he knew his brothers too well; Scotland always wore blue, the patriotic prick he was, as with Ireland who always wore green. If they weren't so large, he would have been more inclined to reason that they might belong to Wales, but he was too short to fit the offending items. And now he was really stumped. The fear of not knowing was terrifying for once; finding himself in a strange place completely naked would do that to anybody, even former pirates and great empires. Unless they were French. He looked at his outfit and saw that it had been defecated by the remnants of last night's crisis, and resigned that it would be a better idea not to wear it for now. This should have comforted him, feeling that his bare skin was more hygienic than his own bile, but being the stubborn gentleman he was, his nudity was no less humiliating and worrying.

"Naked means naked..." he grumbled to himself, before folding his clothes neatly and carrying them on his arm. He saw a dressing gown on a wooden wall hook, so he wore that instead. Surely whoever it was wouldn't matter; it was only polite to give clothes to the needy and the sick. _Especially_ after undressing them without permission.

Tiptoeing out of the room, he checked the coast was clear before making his way down the stairs slowly. He could hear a voice emanating from what looked like the kitchen he collapsed in the night previous, and was curious as to what it was saying, despite more alarm bells warning him that it was stupid to risk being seen by his captor. Curiosity got the better of his though, and he snuck over to listen closely.

"Yes Mr Asquith, I understand," an American voice said, sounding really serious. England blinked in shock. It sounded like… like Alfred's voice? And who was this Asquith? Surely he wasn't talking to his boss? What the bloody fuck was America doing with the prime minister of England! He listened closer, trying to catch the conversation and hopefully find answers. "I know, which is exactly why I feel I need to help." Alfred was silent for a second as the man on the phone said something which he couldn't make out, before replying, "I know, he collapsed just last night." Arthur blinked, memories returning and slowly everything dawned on him as his eyes widened in realisation. More silence. "Yes, I know I'm strong enough to support both countries, I'll make the transfer as soon as I can. Good day Mr Asquith." Not a sound followed the loud clunky click of the phone being placed back on the dial.

England stood there, paralysed. He started shaking in fear as he looked on, numb, trying hard to process all this information. It sounded as if he'd been... _dissolved_. A-and now America was taking him over? He curled up into a ball on the floor as he went pale white. He didn't understand, he was a superpower for god's sake! Despite his economic problems, surely he wasn't in so much trouble that he was going to be taken over...

Was he?

He sniffed, eyes prickling and tears welling up. After all these years, he couldn't believe that his time had come. He sobbed loudly against the wall, waiting for the inevitable moment when he started to fade. Or worse, when America stuck his big gaudy flag right through his heart.

He felt a firm hand on his shoulder, pressing firmly with a strong grip. His stomach twisted at the touch; he had so much life experience, yet not with his own death; he has no idea what was about to happen. Becoming one with America? _Dear god_, he didn't know if that was a real thing or just a turn of phrase thrown about by Ivan! Blast all, he was going to miss being a country… and that was a huge understatement. For all the stress of meetings and wars and all the shit he had to put up with, not to mention those all those annoying foreign Johnnies screwing with him... he really was going to miss this.

Pulling together his last ounce of inner-strength, he tried to proudly sing rule Britannia in a faltering voice, although it probably sounded like a slurred mess to anyone else trying to catch what he was blubbering. Alfred stood there above him, and waited for him to finish, before crouching down and settling on his haunches, looking at the emotional blonde in front of him.

"Arthur…" he said to the top of the man's head, wanting to be looked in the eyes. The Brit didn't move, he just tensed up and whined. America sighed, Britain was such a wreck. He stroked the straw locks and cooed gently, "Arthur, look at me, please?" England merely grumbled and muttered barely coherently.

"Stop being so bloody 'tender' Alfred, I know what you're doing", he wanted to say, and managed to with partial success.

"You heard my phone call?" America asked the despairing nation, and he stopped mid-stroke.

"No, _I was bloody listening to Chopin you wanker_, of course I heard you. So just get it over with already. You want to take me over? Bloody hell, just get on with it, I don't want to spend my last moments having my head groped!" he yelled into his folded arms, a little more articulate this time. America blinked and looked confused. He sat down cross legged in front of the Brit. He cupped Arthur's face in his hands and forced it gently upwards so he could look him in his emerald eyes. He saw England's face all white and blank. He wiped away the tear trails with his thumbs and leaned in close.

"Close your eyes, it'll all be over soon" America instructed his elder, who huffed and reluctantly complied with a sad scrunch of his face, a few more tears trickling down his countenance. England felt his heart breaking, and he couldn't think of anything else to do or say. Alfred leaned in closer, his breath on Arthur's face making the shorter blonde bite his bottom lip and sob a little, his body shivering with cold as his face came into contact with the warm air. Alfred's glasses fogged up a bit, but right now he didn't care about that. His eyes were closed anyway. The gap between their faces was closing, and Arthur could feel himself being drained of all feeling... Until a pair of lips met his own.

Arthur opened his eyes a little in shock, peering at the American with surprise, and... He felt his cheeks getting warmer and the butterflies in his stomach fluttering like mad. He was a bit more than confused right now, but for some absurd reason, he actually quite liked this. If he was going to die, he might as well live a little. He closed his eyes again and deepened the kiss a little, pressing against those rugged, but soft lips of Alfred's. After about a minute, Alfred noticed how much more relaxed the Brit was, and removed his hands from the man's face, sliding them down to his chest and tentatively licking the other's lips, requesting entry. Arthur allowed it, opening his mouth a little and greeted Alfred's tongue with his own. The American explored the hot cavern with great interest, taking into account the texture of its walls and appreciating how smooth and perfect his teeth were. _Which was surprising, given how many other stereotypes England seemed to fit_, America thought to himself, as he smiled widely.

Arthur moaned a little, sucking on the other's tongue and letting himself get lost in the moment. He pressed his face into the other some more, breathing in deeply and making his mind go hazy. He wrapped his arms around the American's strong figure and closed all the distance between them. Alfred bit the Brit's lip softly, causing the other to gasp a little, and sending shivers through his body. Tilting his head a little more, Arthur thrust his face forward into America's, their lips crashing into each other's and making Alfred's glasses jab England in the eye. Brought sharply back to reality, he pulled away from the American and squinted at him, rubbing his eye that was starting to water again.

"A-Alfred...?" he asked pitifully. He was confused by everything, and he had so many questions. "...W-why did you...?" he couldn't find the words as his mind trailed off, speechlessly gazing into those blue eyes. They smiled, twinkling into his emerald pair and Alfred stroked the other's hand.

"Why did I _what_?" he pursued, flashing a cheeky grin at the other, knowing it would embarrass him. Blushing bright red, Arthur smacked the other around the head gently.

"You..." he frowned, "Just, I don't even..." he made a poker-face and narrowed his eyes a little, _damn right I'm embarrassed, bloody wanker_. America chuckled and embraced the other, taking England by surprise as he was pulled into a warm hug.

"Oh Iggy, you know how much I love you," he whispered to the other, in almost a sing-song voice. This earned him another smack to the head, although this one was a bit harder.

"Wanker, how many times! Stop calling me Iggy. Honestly, you spend far too much time with Kiku, especially if you're butchering his language too now... and secondly I..." he blinked as it finally sunk in. "W-wait... what?" his face was expressionless as his mind tried to process the information.

"What I just said, _I love you_" Alfred said in his normal voice, rubbing small circles into the Brit's back comfortingly. England blinked away some tears that had started to form again; he didn't even know why he was crying... it's not like he loved the yank back... His face was burning up, and he wondered what new shade of crimson he'd managed to invent. _Bloody America, making everything awkward... If he loved him so much, why did he leave? He never stopped loving the bastard, but here he has the nerve to just hold him hostage in his house, try to take his country over and kiss him as if nothing had happened? Bollocks. _

"Idiot, if you loved me so much, why in God's name are you trying to take me over? I refuse to be your 51st state, you blundering fool!" England fumed, clenching his fists and glaring at the man opposite, who was... smiling? _The fuck is he smiling for?_

"Arthur..." he was smiling sympathetically, trying not to laugh, "I was never trying to take you over."

"Y-you weren't?" he frowned in confusion and scoffed, "Yes, now why do I find that rather hard to believe? I heard your bloody phone call remember?"

America couldn't help but chuckle a little more, "Artie, your economy is terrible, and it's making you really ill... I don't want to see you sink any further, so I decided to try and help. If you'll let me, I'd like to loan you five thousand million dollars. I mean, sure you'd have to pay it back after the war but y'know... I'm in the best position to help you, and I love you too much to see you this way."

"W-well, America... that's... so sweet" England could only say in a quiet voice, looking at the other and begging himself not to cry again. Dammit, why was he acting so weak? _The stupid yank doesn't love you; he just wants you to become financially dependent on him...Then again, it's better than dissolving... right?_ He tentatively reached out a hand to Alfred's, and shivered some more when it was held firmly in that strong, warm grip.

"So it's a deal then?" America looked at the straw-haired blonde hopefully, smile full of kindness and warmth. Arthur paused for thought, and to sneeze, before finally accepting the American's offer and shaking his hand conclusively.

"Deal."

* * *

><p>*PHEW* That was really hard to write, it took me so long, I had a real mindfruk X'D<p>

Americas suit for all you who were wondering: (REMOVE SPACES)

http:/ damselsinregress. files. wordpress. com/ 2010/ 02/ mens_fashion_1856. jpg

The man on the far left but everything in black except the shirt, which should be white.

The dressing gown: (REMOVE SPACES)

http:/ costumesofnashua. com/ CNWebSite105/ Active905/ Pages/ CostumeRental/ Pimp/ Pics%20Pimp/ CopperBrownRobeWHat. jpg

I ENJOYED DRESSING THEM, CLOTHES ARE SEXY. Especially when you get to remove them ;D

ANYWAY, I HAVE GREAT NEWS 8D You know how I cosplay America? Well I proposed to the other half of my USUK while back, and he said yes! ;u; You should read his fanfics, and MAKE COLRIN YOUR OTP. GO ON, WTH ARE YOU WAITING FOR? XD http:/ fanfiction. Net /u/ 2429561/ Fluent_in_Sarcasm98 NOW GO SHOWER HIM IN LOVE MMK? He's the most amazing person I've ever met, and I'm lucky to have him as my Iggy role/cosplay buddy :D USUKFTW!

(And for all you FrUKers out there, don't worry, France still raped the both of us, this wedding won't change ANYTHING XD Or at least not where old frog-face is concerned c: x )

**REMEMBER, PLEASE REVIEW, THEY KEEP ME GOING! 3 QAQ**


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